


A Week in Floral Arrangements

by thevikingqueen



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Coping, Flowers, Loss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:27:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevikingqueen/pseuds/thevikingqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day of every week. This is John Watson's way to cope with loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Week in Floral Arrangements

He brought flowers to the grave every day. Without fail. Always reliable, that John Watson, if not anything else at all.

Mondays were the sunflowers. They were supposed to symbolize optimism, those sunflowers. Of course, John did not actually know this. He just always felt more optimistic early in the week and liked the sunny routine that the sunflowers lended to him.

Maybe Sherlock would walk in, long coat and scarf bellowing around him the next day, he kept thinking. John knew, deep down, that it could not happen. He saw the blood pouring from Sherlock’s head, where it was splattered on the cement of the sidewalk.

But there was always hope, wasn’t there?

John would scoff at his own silly ‘hopeful’ thoughts by Sherlock Holmes’ grave.

His hope was gone. Died with his best friend – sprayed, wet and sticky, on the cement.

Tuesdays was the day John Watson brought striped lilies.

Lilies were the flowers of ‘first love’. Stripes meant refusal. They were John’s own form of rebellion. Sherlock was his first real love. And he refused this loss. It did not really happen. It was all a bad dream, of course. He would wake up any minute now to screeching violins or sporadic shots while Sherlock shouted ‘bored’ at him. Or maybe even crap television shows blaring in the living room while Sherlock raved about the boy not being the man’s son, obviously because of this or that interspliced with yelling for John to make him some tea.

But, of course, that didn’t happen.

Wednesdays brought John with Peonies.

He always thought he was starting to heal by the middle of the week. His pain was lessening slowly.

But no.

He would have a split moment of reminding.

Maybe he would receive a text and he’d think it was Sherlock calling upon him for another case.

Or a street performer would have a violin – he wouldn’t have the same screech or even play a song that Sherlock would ever know.

But still, suddenly, John’s heart would be ripped open once again.

His pain renewed, he’d start to cry in the middle of a bustling sidewalk. Maybe on the 9 o’clock train. Sometimes alone in their - his - flat.

Thursdays were the day it would start to bear down on John.

He would bring slightly wilted pink camellias.

_Longing for you._

That’s what camellias meant.

John finally would break down at the cemetery. He would sit next to the headstone, running his fingers over Sherlock’s name, feeling the curved, gentle grooves and rigid straight lines.

“I miss you,” John would say as he took a long swig from the whiskey bottle be bought on the way over. Tears would mix with the whiskey in his mouth.

He never bothered to wipe the tears away. No point when all the inhabitants around him were dead anyway. The only one who would see his red puffing eyes that day would be Mrs. Hudson, and she would never be so callous as to mention them or his liqueur stained huffs of breath as they passed on the stairs.

Fridays were the days the flower shop sold bouquets for half off. John liked the dogwood and rosemary. These meaning unconditional love despite adversity and remembrance, respectfully. He wouldn’t stay long at the grave site. He could hardly stand it. His eyes were still strained and his head pounding from the last pint before bed. How could he face Sherlock - even his memory of Sherlock - like that?

Saturdays he dropped Forget-me-nots off at the grave and left quickly. John wanted to believe that Sherlock, where ever he was, thought of him as often as he thought of him. But Lestrade had invited him over for a night of Chinese or checkers or some other mundane thing to try to keep John’s mind from wondering much.

Sundays were hard. He would bring Cyclamen flowers. Resignation and goodbyes. John was tired and wanted to let go. He was done. Completely and utterly done. This would be the last day he’d visit the grave site, he promised himself that. Sherlock was _dead._ Dead wasn’t coming back and he couldn’t just off himself in a fit of sadness. No. He’d stop coming to look at the shining stonehead and vowed to only come back once a year, if that.

But it wouldn’t last. The next day he would bring another sunflower to the grave and leave it for the man he loved so fully.

The cycle would continue ever on.

John would continue this routine until the day he died if he had to.

And Sherlock would continue to watch, tucked safely hidden from John. His dear, soft-hearted John. John wouldn’t know the meaning behind the flowers he’d bring to Sherlock’s grave. Of course not. John wouldn’t look into things like that.

But Sherlock knew. As soon as John developed the routine of flowers, Sherlock realized the meanings of the flowers. By some queer coincidence, John had brought flowers of love and goodbyes and everything in-between.

There had only been a handful of times in Sherlock’s life that he had cried. Finding out Santa was not real, as a barley-old-enough-to-be-called-toddler toddler when hungry or soiled, and now, John Watson’s flowers joined that list.


End file.
